


Many Paths to Tread

by Nuinzilien



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Thranduil the Fixer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 00:56:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9632552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuinzilien/pseuds/Nuinzilien
Summary: When Galadriel sailed, she took the Golden Wood with her.  Lord Celeborn and the remaining elves of Lothlorien move east into the Southern Eryn Lasgalen.  But things are not quite working out as expected.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ysilme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysilme/gifts).



> written for the 2017 My Slashy Valentine
> 
> the (awesome) request: A moment in Celeborn’s life, perhaps when he settles in the renewed Greenwood with the rest of the Galadhrim after the Ring War. 
> 
> This ended up being a bit more Gen-oriented than expected, but I did try to work in bits and pieces of lore where I could. Enjoy!

The damned root was doing this on purpose. The moody, spiteful trees of the newly christened East Lorien (formerly the newly christened Southern reaches of Eryn Lasgalen, but it was Celeborn's territory now, and he would damned well call it what he wished) clearly resented the intrusion by Lothlorien's former residents, and therefore chose to make sleeping on the forest floor as uncomfortable as possible.

  
Celeborn grunted and fished a pine cone from under his back. He considered throwing it for a moment. Perhaps he might even be able to throw it far enough to hit that idiot, Haldir, right in his brainless head. Who in their right mind would think it was a wise choice to sleep on the lumpy root and pine cone infested ground under trees that whispered incessantly? A brainless idiot like his marchwarden, evidently.

  
*Who deserves more of your ire, my Lord? The idiot who suggested it, or the idiot who agreed to it?* asked a laughing voice that sounded suspiciously like his recently departed wife.

  
"You are half way across the sundering seas by now, wife," he muttered. "So be silent."

  
A nearby guard gave him a puzzled look. "My Lord?"

  
Celeborn waved her off. "Nothing, Suliel. I was merely thinking aloud."

  
After giving him another curious look, she continued on her patrol.

  
He sighed and put the pine cone down, ignoring Galadriel's laughter floating through his head as he scooted himself up to lean back against the tree. Well, at least the roots weren't digging into his spine anymore, but blessed Valar, how he hurt! From his legs to his arms and back, even his hair throbbed with the ache of over worked muscles. When he'd refused Thranduil's offer of shelter (and the absolutely ridiculous idea of combining their realms), he'd been confident that his people would do just fine. After all, they were Tree Elves, and they had brought with them much of what they needed to rebuild their city. They would be off the forest floor within the week.

  
They were now staring down the arrow shaft of their second month in East Lorien, and almost no progress had been made. Every attempt to build their telain had ended in failure, whether by warping of previously sturdy wood or stinging insects that attacked en masse and ate away at support beams, it seemed as though the trees themselves were rejecting any attempts to make homes within their boughs. As much as the idea of failure rankled, he had begun to wonder if perhaps it would indeed be best to encourage his people to dwell within the King’s halls, or follow their Lady and sail for the white shores.

  
A vicious leg cramp had him gasping for breath and thinking it might just be worth it to swallow his pride and bow to Thranduil’s rule. Clearly he was entirely too out of shape for starting over.

 

~`~<@ ~`~<@

 

“My Lord!”

  
Celeborn looked up, ignoring the dull ache of overworked back muscles as he shouldered another heavy support beam. “Aye?”

  
A border guard hurried toward him, stopping for a moment to bow. “Lord Celeborn.”

 

He waved his hand dismissively. “If you are here to tell me that yet another bundle of our rations has been infested by insects, do not bother. We will survive.”

 

“Nay, my Lord. A messenger has come from the North. King Thranduil respectfully requests your presence at your earliest convenience to discuss important matters of State.”

 

Haldir snorted and took the beam from him, hefting it easily. “If it was actually worded that politely, I’ll eat my boot.”

 

“Those were the messenger’s exact words, Commander,” the guard assured him.

 

“I am sure they were,” Celeborn replied. “Tell the messenger that I am entirely too busy to dance upon his king’s whim and have no time for tea and a chat.”

 

The young elf fidgeted anxiously. “I am afraid he was quite insistent, my lord.”

 

“How insistent?”

 

“King Thranduil’s messenger is to remain and provide you escort.”

 

It was on the tip of Celeborn’s tongue to suggest to Thranduil’s messenger what he could do with himself, but he supposed that under the circumstances, a brief visit to appease his moody neighbor may be best. Especially if their food stores continued to be contaminated. “Very well. Tell Thranduil’s messenger that I will be with him shortly.”

 

The guard bowed and hurried off.

 

Haldir followed Celeborn to the tree root he’d claimed for himself. “Have you any inkling as to what he wants to discuss with you, my Lord?”

 

“A subject of utmost importance with realm-shattering implications.” He packed quickly, adding a spare change of clothing and a few pieces of parchment for notes.

  
Haldir’s brow arched. “How can you be so certain?”

 

“Because, if it is not and he calls me away for a glass of wine and a friendly chat, I will –“ He stopped. What really could he do? His people were homeless and dependent upon the questionable mercy of others… including the king he was now preparing to visit. He sighed and closed his satchel. “Hopefully he recognizes that now is not the best time for me to be away from my people without just cause.”

 

He glanced around. “I suppose I will be travelling on foot.”

 

Haldir nodded. “Most likely, though I think the more accurate term would be by tree. Our horses are not yet used to a forest this thick. Their footing would be precarious at best.” The Marchwarden reached into the pouch hanging at his hip and removed a pair of leaf-wrapped bundles, tossing them toward his lord.

 

Celeborn caught them, blinking. “Lembas. Are you certain? These are four days’ rations.”

 

The guardian shrugged. “King Thranduil’s realm is a two hundred mile run from here. You will need them more than I, my Lord. I can always share with my brothers.”

 

The elf lord sighed. “If I did not need you here directing the building efforts, I would have you come with me.”

 

“You flatter me, my Lord. But since I cannot go with you, I will entrust Rumil to keep you safe from the King’s lechery.”

 

Celeborn snorted. “Lechery? Do not be ridiculous, Haldir. He is a married elf. His ‘lechery’, as you put it, is purely in your mind, and shame on your for it.” He tucked the wrapped lembas away and fastened his daggers into place. “But I would welcome Rumil’s company all the same.”

 

A shadow passed behind Haldir’s eyes. “As you say, my Lord. Safe travels.” He bowed quickly and left.

 

Celeborn turned his attention back to his packing, puzzling over those last moments with the Marchwarden. Haldir had always been slightly suspicious of outsiders, but to outright accuse Thranduil of lechery? Towards HIM? The thought was absurd, really. Regardless of where their wives were now, they were still married elves, and married elves did not have sordid thoughts about each other (though there had been that one time he’d caught himself eyeing Haldir’s backside, because how could you NOT? It was a thing of beauty. He’d been terribly grateful to have been blessed with an understanding wife, who had merely smiled and called the Marchwarden over to join their conversation. Evil, vindictive elleth. He had sworn off anything stronger than wine from that moment on. That last bottle of fire-water from Moria had obviously mothered, but he was taking no chances on being forgiven a second time.)

 

Putting his Marchwarden’s strange behavior aside to ponder later, he fastened his sword to his hip and reached for his bow and quiver. He had a long journey ahead.

 

~`~<@ ~`~<@

 

Thranduil’s messenger – a disgustingly cheerful Silvan who called himself Hadron – called a halt to their travel, leading them to a platform high in the branches of a sturdy beech. “We will rest here for the night and start again at sunrise.”

 

Rumil reached out, taking Celeborn’s pack and situating it against the tree’s trunk. “Would you be stopping here if you traveled alone?”

 

Hadron hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Doubtful,” he admitted. “But I was running through these trees before I could walk. I know every vine and branch like I do my own arms. But for those who are unused to them, the footing can be dangerous. Worry not, my Lord, Marchwarden, we made good time today. If we continue on as we have so far, we should reach my King’s halls perhaps late evening two days hence.”

 

Celeborn resisted the urge to groan. Two more days of jumping from branch to branch and swinging from vines like children at Solstice. Wonderful.

 

Hadron pulled a pair of bars from his pouch and tossed them to the startled Lorien elves. “These are berries, nuts and seeds held together by honey. Nothing fancy, but they’ll fill you. It’s slower to go through you, so it won’t keep you up all night, but if you eat them in the next hour or so, you should be feeling it by dawn.”

 

Rumil inspected the bar curiously. “You do not need to share your supplies with us, friend. We brought lembas.”

 

Hadron smiled. “I’m sure you did. But my Lord bade me bring enough with me to share. This wasn’t a planned trip, so he doubted you had supplies to account for it. If you eat half tonight and half in the morning, it should hold you over until we stop tomorrow evening.” He dusted his hands off. “Now, if you’ll hand me your water skins, I’ll refill them at the stream we passed a mile back and secure the area.”

 

The Marchwarden frowned. “Secure the area? What kind of threats should we be watching for?”

 

“Not many, really. Mostly Huorns still agitated by the Enemy’s occupation. They don’t mean much harm usually, but the poor things take forever to settle down once they’ve been stirred up. We still get a few stragglers from the armies sent to lay siege to the Lonely Mountain and our forest. Stupid move to split his forces that way, if you ask me. But it worked to our benefit, right?”

 

“Indeed,” Celeborn replied, handing his water skin over. “What of the Spiders?”

 

“We hardly see them anymore, to be honest. We might occasionally come across a nest in the less travelled areas, but nothing at all like it was before your Lady threw the fortress down. Thank you for that, by the way. It’s rather nice to be able to run through the forest without seeing those spider sacks and wondering who the unlucky soul inside is.”

 

“You are quite welcome.”

 

Hadron nodded. “Right then. I’d best be on my way before it gets too dark even for me to see.” He hooked the water pouches to his belt and disappeared into the shadows, his footsteps fading quickly.

 

“Interesting fellow,” Rumil said, taking a cautious bite of the fruit and seed bar.

 

“Indeed. In some ways, he reminded me of the young Ringbearer’s companion. The one who received the hithlain rope.” Seeing that his guardian had not collapsed into death spasms, Celeborn split his bar in half and took a bite. It was a little sweet for his tastes, but a nice change to months and months of nothing but lembas.

  
“Samwise Gamgee, my Lord. He does sound like him a bit, doesn’t he? Very practical.” Rumil tucked the rest of his bar away and reached into the packs, pulling out blankets and a map. “If you do not mind, I’ll take first watch? I have too much energy for sleep.”

 

“Not at all.” He accepted one of the blankets and bundled it up, using it as a pillow. Silence fell between them, broken only by the occasional rustle of parchment or sigh from his companion.

 

“Rumil?”

 

“Aye?”

 

The Elf Lord rolled to his side. “What will you do now?”

 

Rumil looked back at him curiously. “My Lord?”

 

“Your brothers have guarded our northern borders for many years now. As did your Father, and his Father before him. What will you do now that there is no northern border?”

 

Rumil shrugged. “We will find a place.”

 

“You and your brothers could have sailed with the Lady and the rest of our people. Why did you stay?”

 

“We are curious to know what Elessar will do now that he has accepted his fate to be King. And someone had to stay behind to take care of you.” Rumil’s grin was pure cheek.

 

Celeborn snorted. “Take care of me? I was caring for legions of warriors long before your Grandsire was in nappies. Try again.”

 

The younger elf chuckled. “Alright, fine. We stayed because you needed someone to watch your back. You have been our Lord for as long as any of us can remember, so where you go, we go. And like you, we have not heard the Calling.” He looked up at the sky for a moment. “Somehow, I doubt we ever will.”

 

The elder elf lay quietly for a long moment, pondering the Marchwarden’s words. He could understand doubting the Call. Despite his wife’s choice to sail and the dark times in the past that had nearly broken him (he still heard his poor child’s screams some nights), he was still very much in love with the lands of his birth. The new world held too much mystery to forsake it unless he had no other choice. But, it was a heavy burden to carry, knowing that as long as he stayed in Middle Earth, so, too, would the brothers.

 

And what if, like Rumil said, he never felt the sea longing? Never felt the urge to sail to the Undying Lands and the waiting arms of his Lady? Would she wait for him?

 

Did he want her to?

 

Celeborn rolled onto his back and stared at the sky. “Good night, Rumil.”

 

“Good night, my Lord.”

  
  
~`~<@ ~`~<@

 

As predicted, it was late evening on their third day of travel by the time the elves from Lothlorien were led to their rooms within Thranduil’s halls. Both elves were grimy and travel weary, the younger Rumil holding up slightly better than his lord. Slightly.

 

The chambermaid pressed her hands together and bowed politely. “My King bade me to encourage you to make use of the Eastern Baths. There are bathing pools to cleanse the body and hot springs to ease the spirit. Pleasant evening, my Lord.” She backed out, closing the door behind her.

 

Celeborn eyed the turned down bed. It looked terribly soft and inviting. And yet, even as exhausted as he was, the chance to get properly clean for the first time in what seemed like ages was too good to pass up.

 

Visions of stretching out on cool, clean bedding sped his footsteps down quiet pathways half-remembered from the few times he’d visited to provide what counsel he could to Greenwood’s newly battle-crowned king. The last time he’d visited, his Lady had been with him, and they’d spent such a lovely evening in the hot springs…

 

So lost in his thoughts was he that it was not until he’d already stripped himself and waded hip-deep into the bathing pool that Celeborn realized he was not alone. He glanced around the chamber, unable to find the source of the quiet splashes.

 

A soft sigh drew his attention to a doorway in the corner, cut off from the bathing chamber by steam and sheer drapes. Those were new.

 

He scrubbed at his hair, cleansing away what seemed like an entire year’s worth of grime and sweat. While he’d certainly gone far longer between baths in his youth, he’d been spoiled by the peaceful, slower pace of Lothlorien. The Golden Wood had existed in a time apart from the rest of Arda. Very little changed, and Nenya’s power ensured they needed to fear even less.

 

Celeborn shook himself free of his musings and dipped under the water. The time for reflection had long passed, and the elves of Lothlorien had no choice but to keep up with the rest of the world.

 

He glanced toward the curtained doorway, the soft gasps and sighs filtering through bringing a smile to his lips. Well. Someone was enjoying himself.

 

He idly wondered who the elf in the other room might be. The Eastern Baths were restricted to only the Royal family, a few of the King’s highest advisors, and honored guests like himself. Not that he hadn’t caught a pair of young guardsmen sneaking out after a tryst a few hundred years ago, and on his last visit, only Galadriel’s quick thinking had kept their own bout of play from being discovered by a young servant. Even now, the memory brought a smile to his lips. He hadn’t known his wife could hold her breath for that long.

 

A mischievous spirit of voyeurism made him near desperate to know just who was beyond the curtain. He rinsed off quickly, stepped out of the pool, and wrapped a towel around his waist. Creeping quietly over to the doorway, he eased the curtain aside and peeked in.

 

An elf, his hair twisted into a loose topknot at his crown, sat with his back to the door. The pale blond hair made him think that perhaps it was Legolas seated before him. But Legolas was off exploring the caves behind Helm’s Deep, and the shoulders on this elf were far too broad to belong to Thranduil’s son.

 

And he wasn’t alone.

 

Another elf sat facing him, this one dark haired and dark eyed with a wicked smile that promised things he could only imagine. For a moment, Celeborn thought he’d been seen when the dark haired elf winked at his companion and ducked under the water’s surface. The blond gasped and hissed softly.

 

Huh, he hadn't known it was even possible to do that under water.

 

Celeborn let the fabric fall back into place and retreated to the far side of the bathing chamber, sitting on a bench to comb his hair. He tried hard to ignore the gasps and quiet moans coming from the other room, and hoped he would not offend anyone with the tented towel in his lap. Not that he felt terribly guilty about it even if he DID offend them. After all, if they were going to get up to that sort of mischief in such a public place, they had to expect there might be someone listening.

 

The noises built up to loud crescendo, followed by the soft splashes of bodies leaving the water and preparing to return to their rooms.

 

He looked up as he heard the curtain being pulled aside, a congratulatory jest dying on his lips.

 

Standing before him in a dressing gown and his hair still up in a topknot, was Thranduil, King of Eryn Lasgalen. His host. His MARRIED host.

 

Thranduil recovered quickly, his look of surprise smoothing out into the wry humor that was his trademark. “Celeborn. I see you made good time. I had not expected you until early tomorrow.”

 

“Obviously,” he choked out.

 

“Yes, well, since you ARE here, perhaps you would care to join me in the morning for breakfast. I am certain you have much work waiting for you in the South, and I have a proposition to discuss with you.”

 

Celeborn huffed and stood, remembering at the last second to keep the towel in place. “If you called me here just to suggest moving my people into your -“

 

Thranduil waved his hand dismissively. “No, no, I am well aware of your feelings on the matter, little sense as they make.” Ignoring Celeborn’s bristle, he guided his companion to the exit. “It is late and no doubt we are all weary. I shall see you in the morning, Celeborn. Will nine o’clock work? Yes? Fine. A servant will guide you there. Until then…” The king glanced down at the towel completely failing to hide the Lord’s condition, his lips twisting into a smirk. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He glided from the room, one hand at the small of the dark-haired elf’s back.

 

Celeborn stood there, gaping like a fish. The NERVE of some elves! It seemed Haldir was right in sending Rumil with him. Thranduil was clearly a lecher!

 

He glanced down at himself. Thranduil wasn’t wrong, though. He did need to do something about his current situation, because walking back to his rooms like this definitely was not an option.

 

He rubbed at his eyes and tried to imagine the least sexy thoughts possible. Orcs. Goblins. Dining with Dwarves. He glanced down at his uncooperative flesh. This clearly called for more extreme measures.

 

War camps. Dragon dung. Elrond’s hairy backside that one time he – oh. Ew. That one was uncalled for, though it seemed to do the trick. Probably for life.

 

He shuddered. Definitely for life. Perhaps he should track down Aiwendil and ask if he knew of some tonic or herb capable of wiping that image from his memory, else he might just lose use of his organ altogether!

 

Celeborn pulled on a robe and made his way to his rooms quickly, nearly tripping over Rumil just outside his door. “What are you doing? You have your own rooms, do you not?”

 

Rumil looked up from his spot on the floor. “Aye, but they are two doors down from here. Haldir would skin me if I left your rooms unguarded in this place.”

 

The Elf Lord snorted. “Your dedication to duty is admirable, guardian. Can I get you anything?”

 

“Nay, my Lord, I have everything I need. Good night.”

 

“Good night, Rumil.”

 

~`~<@ ~`~<@

 

As promised, the servant delivered Celeborn to a room at nine o’clock. “Where are we?” he asked, looking around at the sun-filled chamber. “And how are you getting this much sunlight in a cave?”

 

“My sitting room. The light is reflected in by way of mirrors and warped glass, much as the Dwarves of Moria did.” Thranduil said, gesturing to a table laden with tea and pastries. “Shall we?”

 

“Aye.” Celeborn sat, reaching for the steeping tea.

 

“How was your trip here?” Thranduil settled in his own chair, hip cocked slightly, as if unable to bear his full weight.

 

“Much shorter than it used to be. And nicely uneventful, though it has been a century or more since I last ran through the trees like an elfling.” He noticed the odd position. “Problems?”

 

“Nothing to concern yourself with. The trees really are the best way to travel in forests as densely wooded as ours. The branches are too many and the trunks too close to make bridges practical.”

 

“And yet you have a riding moose.”

 

The king shrugged. “I don’t spend all of my time in the forest, and Pooky makes an impression. And a clear path wherever he goes.”

 

“With a rack that large, I can understand why.” He sipped his tea. “So why is it you decided to summon me here while we are building our new home.”

 

“You mean TRYING to build your new home,” Thranduil corrected. “You do not seem to be having much luck.”

 

“I noticed. All of our attempts at building our telain have ended in failure. It is as if the trees themselves are against us. And how did you know this? Do you have spies among my elves, Thranduil?”

 

“I hardly need them, Celeborn. The forest tells me what I need to know. And as far as the trees being against you… perhaps they are? These are not the placid, well-behaved mallorns of the Golden Wood. These are oaks and beeches and firs, some nearly as old as Fangorn himself. There are some who may be willing to foster you, but until you stop being Lothlorien’s elves and start being Greenwood’s elves, they will be few and far between.”

 

Celeborn frowned. “But we are NOT Elves of the Greenwood, nor have we been since Amroth’s rule.”

 

Thranduil leaned forward. “But you can no longer be Lothlorien’s elves, can you? The Golden Wood is gone, old friend, and her people must move forward and grow.”

 

“By going back?”

 

“If that is what you must do.” The King bit into a pastry. “You have options.”

 

Celeborn sighed. “Like what? Moving in here? I have told you before, my people are Tree Elves. We do NOT live in caves.”

 

Thranduil snorted. “Really? I seem to recall that you were born in the same cave system as I was. Thingol’s nephew, are you not?”

 

The silver-haired elf gave him a wry look. “Great-Nephew, actually, but aye, I was born in Menegroth. But my people were not. They are Silvan. I will not ask that of them unless there is truly no other choice.”

 

The King sighed. “You are their Lord, Celeborn. They will go where you lead them, be it underground, in the trees, or across the Sea.” He sipped his tea. “But my caves are not the only option you have.”

 

“No?”

 

“Go to Amon Lanc. Much of the original architecture of my Father’s capital city was warped by the Necromancer and destroyed when Galadriel purified Dol Guldur. But the forests immediately surrounding still have many of the old flets. While I cannot say for certain the condition they are in, it would be better than trying to start from nothing. Perhaps the elves of Lothlorien could become Greenwood’s elves without losing all that they became in the Golden Wood.” Thranduil shrugged and leaned back in his chair with only the barest hint of a wince. He spread his arms wide. “And if that proves to be unsuccessful, my doors are always open to you.”

 

“We will try Amon Lanc first.”

 

“Fine. Hadron said you did well with the seed and berry bars?”

 

Celeborn nodded. “Aye, they made a nice change from our rations.”

 

“Good.” Thranduil poured himself more tea. “By the time you are ready to leave here, a shipment will be making its way down to supplement your rations. It will have to go around, so you will arrive several days before the shipment.”

 

“How do you do it?”

 

Thranduil blinked. “Hm? Oh, the bars? A trade secret, I am afraid. One which the kitchen staff guards zealously. So I cannot tell you, because I do not know.”

 

“No, no, not that! You are married, and yet you cavort in the baths with others?”

 

The King tilted his head. “My wife has been dead for many years now. And why should it matter to you what I do?”

 

Celeborn sat back in his chair. “Because you are married. We get only one chance, Thranduil. You had yours.”

 

Thranduil’s brow arched. “Says who? The Noldor? The Valar? They broke their own rule at the first opportunity when Finwe’s wife died, did they not? They have forsaken Middle Earth again. Just as they did before Elrond’s sire sought their aid in defeating the Fallen One. And they certainly never cared what happened to those who did not follow the Hunter, so why should they care what we do now?”

 

Celeborn snorted. “What, the warg is away so the deer will play?”

 

“Are you calling my wife a warg, Celeborn?”

 

“Of course not! But what I am saying is that just because she is gone does not mean we are free to do as we will. What will you say to her when you see her again?”

 

Thranduil sighed. “Celeborn… there will never be a ship for us. If we were going to sail, we would have done so already. I know this. You know this, and if you think Galadriel did not also know this, you are less wise than your reputation lets on. Now, perhaps you do know your wife better than I do, but I know MY wife, and she would not want me to spend the rest of my long life alone. MY wife could not be that cruel. Could yours?”

 

Celeborn stared into his tea. “No, she could not.” He glanced up at the King. “I am still quite annoyed with you for calling me away for this.”

 

Thranduil smirked and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t see why. I merely needed to clarify your situation and offer you counsel, just as you have done for me in the past. This is a new world, my friend, and the options are endless.”

 

“So tell me: what path will you choose?” 


End file.
